


Eyes Cold

by h_itoshi



Category: Hey! Say! JUMP
Genre: A touch of horror movies, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, I am so busted already, Is this even a pairing, M/M, Mindfuck, Psychological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_itoshi/pseuds/h_itoshi
Summary: When he was younger, Yamada was scared of all of it. But the further he's decayed, the more interests and friends he's lost, the more he's started to wonder if maybe this is it.The home for lost souls like him.





	Eyes Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aisu_Inoue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisu_Inoue/gifts).



> Hi!   
> I suppose I should apologize for this, but I'm really not that sorry. Since there was a lot of freedom in your signup, I took the liberty of going ALL the way out there. I hope it at least makes some kind of sense and you can find something about it you enjoy!!

The street is wet from rain, reflecting the neon signs from the bigger road further ahead. The cables hang low above the asphalt and the people guarding their various entrances to places hidden from daylight makes it seem almost claustrophobic.

Maybe guarding isn't the right word, Yamada thinks as he looks at the groups of people standing outside on the street in various outfits that are only acceptable in the dark. Smoking, drinking, talking. Filling the air with smoke and the sound waves not covered by steps or low music from inside with a low murmur. They stare at him walking past with distaste and judgement, wondering what the hell he's doing here.

It's past 1 a.m, and he's still wandering around since he left work at 10 p.m. He's tried eating, but nothing tastes good, he's tried drinking, but beer and sake can't drown out the pointless feeling of meaning nothing. Of wasting his life on useless work, for morals and pride while he's really just killing himself for nobody's sake. Nobody really cares what happens to him.

Yamada's mother wouldn't approve of this area, he thought as he first approached it, and it almost made him smile. It's the kind of area he was warned about as a child and threatened not to approach as a teenager. Where drugs and guns and kinky sex flourishes and nobody is who they seem.

When he was younger, Yamada was scared of all of it. But the further he's decayed, the more interests and friends he's lost, the more he's started to wonder if maybe this is it.

The home for lost souls like him.

Where nobody is anyone but who they are deep within, where nobody judges your deepest desires and filthiest fantasies. Where the chains holding down your body to the reality of the world are loosened, and you can let yourself go completely.

He's considered it several times. Just going inside one of the strange clubs without caring if he comes out alive on the other side. But even if he finds the street tempting, so very tempting, nothing has allured him enough to breach the final barrier of sanity he still has.

Until tonight. When he sees _him._

He's standing there, just outside a small door that seems to lead into some kind of basement, red light glowing from somewhere within, flickering like hellfire. Music is blasting but it sounds psychedelic, dance music from a horror movie, and Yamada wonders what kind of place it is. It doesn't have a sign.

He's tall, with pale skin and dark hair, a face chiselled like a greek god and black eyes so dark and so empty despite being the most enhanced feature on his face. He's smoking a cigarette, the glow from the embers lighting up his cold eyes but it's only illumination. There's no warmth inside them. But they're watching Yamada where he realizes he's stopped, still a little moist from the previous rain and in his business suit from earlier today. He probably looks like the lost salaryman he is.

The man watching him on the other hand, wears a shiny black leather jacket and tight black pants, legs so long Yamada doesn't think he's ever seen anything like it. Underneath the jacket is some kind of shimmery fabric that looks like it'd be slippery to the touch, and Yamada wants to feel it. Those cold eyes keep him frozen in his spot, and Yamada shivers, not sure if it's from the cold or how the look feels thrilling and dangerous at the same time. The man wears make up, lots of black framing his eyes, and his hair is wispy like it's greasy but still not. He looks lethal but maybe that's what makes him attractive.

The man exhales a slow breath of air, and then holds out his cigarette, raising an eyebrow in question, but the expression in those eyes never changes.

Yamada takes a deep breath, pushes his mother to the back of his mind and steps forward, accepting the cigarette from the beautiful stranger and inhales.

He's on the dancefloor, bodies pressing against him from all sides and he's not sure if he's sweating or if he's just still wet, has no idea what it is he's drinking from the old hard plastic glass and he wonders if this kind of music makes people go into trance. Nobody around them pays any attention, caught up in their own and Yamada's seen people actually fuck on the dancefloor, he's seen someone get whipped on a stage, seen some people with crazy eyes act like cavemen and he has no idea what's going on.

The only thing he knows is the beautiful man pressed closed against him, rolling their bodies together without minding the beat of the music, constantly fixing him with those empty eyes and Yamada's mind is spinning.

He's at the bar with the beautiful stranger, a set of shot glasses filled with jet black set before them, and the man raises his glass while Yamada picks up his own.

“I'm Yuto.” The man speaks, and Yamada wishes he could lick up the liquid honey that is his voice. Instead, he thinks that the liquor in their glasses perfectly matches Yuto's eyes.

He never speaks his own name, instead throws down the black fire in his glass, his eyes tearing and he squeezes them shut against the strobe lights as he tries to find any flavour in what he just drank, but there's none.

When he opens his eyes again, there's a hand held out before him containing a couple pills in pastel colours. At least he thinks they're pastel, it's hard to tell in the disturbing red light.

“If you're here to forget.” The liquid honey keeps dripping into his ear canals and Yamada reaches out to accept the pills.

He's trapped in a cage with thick metal bars that feel moist and grimy, like they've been underwater for a decade. The walls are tiles, once white but now dark and dirty, sprays of crimson across them like sprinkles of black and red glitter. There's no source of light but there's still vision, even if he barely sees outside.

He's so hot, burning, and as he presses against the bars to cool his face, he makes out movement on the other side. A squelching sound as something crawls towards him, and slowly a girl with long dark hair takes shape on the floor. Her hair is soaked and dripping like something straight out of The Ring, but her face is half gone, rotten away from weeks in water, but Yamada finds himself welcoming her arrival.

There's a sound from his right, and as he turns around, there's a drumset covered in dust, empty but with a single cymbal swinging, like something just hit it.

A touch to his face from behind him is cool and soft, and as he turns towards the wanted affection, he chokes at how close the face of a man is, an abrasion covering his face like he scraped it against a brick wall. His eyes are white and all his teeth showing in an eternal smile, and Yamada can't look away, sweating and losing his footing. He stumbles on some kind of fabric length on the floor and falls against the bars, the moisture quickly cooling his cheeks soothing as he grabs onto the bars. The little girl on the floor reaches out for him with rotten fingers as the man gently plays with his hair.

He's shivering as he finds himself pressed against the uncomfortable fence of what seems like a backyard in a strange alley, sweating in his suit and pressing a raging erection against the hips that meet his.

Yuto's got a hand in his hair and lips against his neck, the wet soft touch rushing like fire through his body and Yamada whines.

Yuto grunts, the honey in his voice chrystalizing into something sharper, more urgent and maybe as lonely as he is.

The fence rattles with the next forceful grind against his hips and Yamada's fingers curl in the metal net in order to remain standing. He moans helplessly into the night at the definitely bigger erection meeting his own through layers of clothes.

“Are you back in there baby?” Yuto asks, voice ragged as his hand curls in Yamada's hair to tilt his head back and drag lips along his neck, teasing with tongue and teeth against his jugular.

“Fuck me.” Is all Yamada manages to get out.

He's thrown down on dirty sheets but he doesn't care where he is, only cares that Yuto's tossing his leather jacket aside and he can touch the flimsy shimmer that covers his chest but is mostly seethrough.

His own pants are unbuttoned and tugged down, only enough to suffice and the waistband digs into his thighs as slick fingers starts to prod him open. It's the filthiest he's ever felt, and he curls his fists in Yuto's slippery shirt as he's opened up just enough to still hurt a little but he moans anyway.

His legs are shoved up and he feels like he's going to snap in half when Yuto leans over him, knees up by his elbows as a thick cock pushes inside him.

He's strapped down on a table, staring at a broken surgery lamp in the ceiling before he's blinded by a sharp flashlight. Except it's not a flashlight, he realizes as it moves, attached to the forehead of a man with long hair dressed in a surgeon outfit.

There's movement just above his head and he looks up, facing a nurse in a skimpy costume and enough make up to be a drag queen, with a big syringe filled with black liquid. Yamada watches silently as she lowers it, and sees in slow motion how the needle is inserted in his bicep and she starts pushing the liquid inside him. It's like a new pulse spreads through his system, out of synch with his own heart and it feels like his pulse beats double, like there's another heart somewhere in his body growing out.

There's a tearing sound from clothing and Yamada slowly turns his head, finding another masked doctor with a scalpel cut a large tear in his other bicep. He watches in morbid fascination how his skin and muscles fall open like a big chunk of red meat.

He can't feel it, but he feels the soft caress to his other hand, glancing up to find the nurse's thigh slowly rubbing against his hand like seeing him cut open turns her on.

Then suddenly a scream cuts through the air and he doesn't know if it was him or not, but his stomach is roughly exposed and an incision made in it, a gloved and bloody hand reaching inside him to carelessly dig around, and it's surprisingly pleasant. Makes him feel filled, frustrated yet satisfied and he squirms to try and make it better. But the hand pulls out, holding loops of shiny intestines connected like a spiral staircase, and inside their vessel injected walls is something pearly white swirling around.

A manly moan vibrates his ear and it makes him think of liquid honey dripping onto smooth skin.

He turns and finds that the other doctor has Yuto's empty eyes, but they're watching his arm and not his face.

When Yamada turns to look at his own arm, he finds the flesh wound filled with crawling maggots eating away at him, and he wonders what it tastes like for them. He leans over as well as he can with his restraint, parting his lips to try. He tastes blood. The maggots tickle his tongue.

A female moan resounds as the nurse grabs his hand and rubs his fingers against her inner thigh, but Yamada only sees the glisten of silver in Yuto's begloved hands as he raises a surgical instrument and a forceps, lowering them to Yamada's maggot filled arm.

The needle hurts as it pierces his skin, and Yamada whines as the first stitch is made.

He wakes up with the worst headache of his life, and he's still not sure if he's really awake. But he's at home, in his own bed, with his own phone on the bedside table and a glass of water next to him.

He shifts, and his entire body feels sore, uncertain where it hurts and even if it hurts. His alarm clock says 10:52, which is decent for a Saturday morning after a night drinking.

He doesn't remember what happened yesterday night, only has memory flashes of really weird nightmares and he tries to recall if he actually met someone yesterday.

It does smell strange in his room, and not only cigarette smoke, but something sweet and almost rotten, like old trash you forget to take out. He makes a face.

He starts to sit up, ready to go to the bathroom and clean away whatever drunkeness is left in him, but pain explodes in his abdomen at the movement and he falls back with a rising feeling of panic, because nothing has ever hurt like that.

Very carefully he lifts the covers, and looks down his naked upper body, stomach turning as he sees the row of sloppy black stitches holding together a fresh incision.


End file.
